


With a Delicate Touch

by ChibiSquirt, icoulddothisallday



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bottom Steve, First Time, M/M, NSFW Art, Polyamory, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 08:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/icoulddothisallday/pseuds/icoulddothisallday
Summary: When submission comes up on a case, Steve takes an interest, but neither of his current partners is willing to try.  Fortunately, they know someone who can help them out!





	With a Delicate Touch

**Author's Note:**

> ChibiSquirt: Many thanks to Clue for the beta, and to icoulddothisallday and tetrodotoxin for dragging me into this fandom in the first place. :)

“I’m not judging, brah.  Just doesn’t look comfortable.”

“Well, you know, the guy is... dead...  He probably stopped being comfortable around the time the, uh, garotte went around his neck.”

“Nah, I mean the rest of it.  Look: corset. That _has_ to suck, right?”

“Plus the mask.”  Chin had popped up on Danny’s left side, mirroring Kono on his right.  “The mask looks claust—uh. Closed in. Hot.”

“Sweaty,” Steve agreed.  He and Cath had come striding over from Duke at the squad car to where the rest of the team stood, clustered around the body on the lanai.  Behind them, Danny could see Max getting out of his yellow Camaro, trailing his exam bag. “And what’s that on his legs?”

“Those’re just fishnets,” Cath said dismissively.  “They’re actually pretty easy to wear. If I were him, I’d be more bothered by the leather diaper.  Now _that_ can’t have been comfortable.”

“I think they’re short shorts.”  Danny squinted down at Ishiro Konimura’s crotch, trying to see what kind of closure the brief garment around his hips had.  “Looks like they just pull up and the tension keeps them in place. You know, since they’re so...” He made a gesture like a man holding a vase, squinching his hands in together to indicate the forces that would be exerted on the leather.

“Okay, regardless, this can’t have been his idea to put on, right?”  Steve was frowning down at the corpse. His eyes kept tracking to the lower half of the body, Danny noticed, before jerking up and around to examine the torso and their surroundings again.  Something about Mr. Konimura’s fishnet covered legs was fascinating Steve, drawing his attention like a ticking time bomb. Danny looked closer, trying to figure it out, as Steve kept speaking.  “Somebody told him to dress up in all this, somebody who saw him right before his murder. That has to be our first suspect.”

Konimura’s legs were shaved, Danny realized.  They were perfectly smooth, clear of both hair and razor burn, and—it must be said—in shockingly good shape for his age.  This was a man who had _expected_ to be wearing tights, who wore them often, even.  And putting a razor in his hand—even a safety razor, a Venus sixty-nine or whatever—was a good sign that whoever dressed him up like this wasn’t their suspect.

Unless it was a crime of passion.  It could definitely still be a crime of passion.

But Steve was looking at the legs.  He was looking at them, and then his gaze was darting away again, nervously almost.  Which meant he knew all this, and was still aiming for their sex-buddy as his potential murderer.

Danny tossed the idea back and forth a couple times, but he really _couldn’t_ see a reason not to call Steve out on his bullshit, here.  “I’m thinking not. The costuming here—” He waved a hand. “—has all the hallmarks of something cooperative.  Odds are good that whoever told him to dress like this really liked Konimura. Not the first one I’d turn to for this.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, stubbornly.  He looked at the legs again—they were still smooth; hadn’t changed in the last fifteen seconds, Steve—then met Danny’s eyes squarely, his jaw clenching in a position Danny recognized, with a sinking stomach, as his stubborn look.  “Right now, it’s the only lead we’ve got. All this stuff looks swanky—real leather on that diaper—”

“Short shorts.”

“—and I’m guessing that corsets aren’t cheap, either.  Konimura was a civil servant, no way he could afford that casually.  This is high-end, which means limited supply, and fetish, which means limited demand.  Someone’s going to recognize it. Check around with the local shops, somebody’s going to ID our suspect.”

“Not necessarily.”  Max had arrived and was kneeling next to the body with his kit open.  “As fetishes go, BDSM is one of the most common; some estimates say that nearly twenty percent of the population has tried it, or one in five.  And furthermore, most of the supplies can be bought online—an option many people prefer due to the increase in discretion.”

“Thank you, Max, that’s very helpful.”  Danny glared pointedly at Steve.

“Let’s search the house,” Chin suggested, making peace with an alternative suggestion.  “Maybe we’ll find something else in there.”

 

* * *

 

There was nothing in the house.  

Konimura was a civil servant, as Steve had said:  a secretary in the state treasury, he primarily dealt with issuing tax audits.  It was his supervisor who had called the police in, having been worried when Konimura missed his shift.  Apparently that wasn’t like him. Konimura’s income was moderate, and he lived like it: the carpet was utilitarian, the furniture Ikea, and the art on the walls were all anonymous prints.  There were some photos on the walls, too, filled mostly with Konimura’s family who, Kono said, mostly still lived in Japan. He had a cousin who taught archeology at the University of Hawaii, but by and large, he lived alone.

“I’ll talk to his coworkers,” Kono volunteered.  “Maybe they know something more about him.”

“I’ll take the cousin, then.”  Catherine seemed to have accepted that she would get the rookie tasks for a while.  None of them wanted the cousin; too much potential grief, and a professor of archeology only sounded fun when you were imagining he looked like Henry Walton Jones.  Which—considering what Konimura looked like, harelip and all—was unlikely.

“Want to check the porn stores with me, Danny?”  Steve grinned at him in the way that said he knew he was being an obnoxious asshole, and Danny indulged him by rolling his eyes.

“I will check the porn stores with you as soon as you acknowledge that this is a goose chase.”

“It’s not a goose chase—”

“Because we are not going to find this guy—or chick, I guess, it could be a chick—by asking around in person, and also because—”

“Oh, here we go—”

“Whoever his partner in all this was, they are not going to be our killer.  You—”

“We could very well find them, this is specialty stuff—”

“You heard Max, twenty percent of the population has tried this stuff!  That’s not that narrow a specialty!”

“You know what I’m wondering?”  Chin’s light tenor broke into their argument like a brisk stream washing away old mud.  They both turned to look at him, half taking on a new opponent, half grateful for the interruption.  Chin raised his eyebrows at them in amusement. “Max said it was one in five, right? Well, how many of us are there here?”

One by one, Chin counted them off, pointing first at himself, then Kono, Catherine, Steve, and...

Danny sighed, raising his hand.  

“Really!”  The exclamation seemed torn out of Steve without thinking, surprise written into the tone and also the way his arms pulled back from the shoulders, chest opening up like the knowledge had stolen some of his air.

“I tried it with Rachel,” Danny admitted.  “Her idea. Didn’t like it much.”

“Why not?”  Kono looked honestly curious as she passed through the back door of the house again and held it for them all to follow.  “Not that—I mean, I’ve never tried it, I just... I figured it’s one of those things, like... I don’t know, like smoking, maybe?  Not for me, but if it’s something you’ll try, it probably _will_ be your thing.”

“And you think it’s my thing?”

“I didn’t say that, I just...”

“It was too complicated, okay?  Too many props and too much thinking.  I like things simple.”

“So what you’re saying is, you’re not going to be able to guide us through the intricacies of the local S&M scene?”  Chin was finding all of this way, _way_ too funny.

Max took a break from his exam of the body to sit back on his heels, looking up at all of them.  His face was open and matter-of-fact as they gathered around, and even knowing Max, knowing him well, and guessing what bombshell he was about to drop, Danny _still_ wasn’t ready for it.  “If you need a guide, as you call it, I am very familiar with our scene here—or at least, the local scene; the tourists get... something else.”

 

* * *

 

They found the sex partner, and unfortunately for Steve, Danny was completely right:  it definitely wasn’t her.

It might be more accurate to say that _she_ found _them:_ Rachel Lauer showed up at the house, blissfully ignorant of the horror out back on the lanai, and demanded to know what they had done with “Sweet Ichiro.”  She started crying when she saw the picture, angrily swiping tears from her cheeks even as she was able to tell them his schedule in the last hours of his life.

“He should have been in pajamas,” she said.  “We had done a scene, earlier, and then I put him to bed.  The gear—all the... what he was wearing—that all gets cleaned the same night.  I do it; it’s one of the ways I... I take care of him, after. I always do it after he falls asleep...  He was out for the night when I left, and the gear was all hanging up neatly. I would _never_ have left him dressed like this.”

Steve blinked at the almost fierce tone with which she said that last bit.  He looked at Danny, but Danny shrugged, equally baffled. He looked back at Ms. Lauer.  “Why not?”

Ms. Lauer blinked at them both, surprised.  “It’s not comfortable,” she said.

“I uh... forgive me, but...”  Danny’s hand was waving through the air.  “...I thought that was the point?”

Ms. Lauer shook her head, irritated.  “Then you don’t understand. Domination, it’s not just about hurting somebody as much as you can.  It’s about taking everything off of their shoulders, taking control. I _nurtured_ Ichiro.  I was the only person he could let go with, the only one that didn’t expect him to worry about details.  When I left here earlier tonight, Ichiro was _relaxed._ He was sweet with it.  I would never have riled him back up by making him change back into the leathers.”

Steve and Danny exchanged another look.  Steve wanted to look harder at Ms. Lauer; their killer had dressed Konimura up in fetish gear, and that _couldn’t_ be a coincidence.  Danny believed her, though.  They were at an impasse, and they couldn’t have it out right this second:  Kono thought it was bad for their image when Steve and Danny argued in front of the perps.  

They both turned back to Ms. Lauer.  

She read their faces and huffed.  “Have either of you ever tried it?” she asked.  “From either side?”

“He has,” Steve said immediately, pointing.

“What are you—I told you that in confidence!”

“You told me that in the middle of an investigation, surrounded by our entire team _and Max.”_

“That’s family!  It’s confidence!”

Steve opened his mouth, then remembered the Not In Front of the Perps rule and shut it again.

“You should try it before you assume anything,” Ms. Lauer said.  Steve looked over at her, startled. She smiled at them with grief still on her, discipline taking over when grief would have sunk her.  “You’ve been in a fight, right?”

Danny spluttered.  “Has he—did you just ask him that?   _Him?”_

Ms. Lauer didn’t even look over, didn’t acknowledge the interruption.  More fierce will. “It’s all the same neurochemicals,” she explained. “A totally natural high, a deep relaxation, and it’s all finished off with a soupcon of sex.”

Ichiro Konimura’s living room was silent as Steve stared at her, and Danny stared at Steve.  

Steve couldn’t help thinking it sounded good, they way she put it.

The moment hung for one more second, two more, three—and then popped like a soap bubble when Danny cleared his throat aggressively.  “You said you wouldn’t have left him like this... Is there anyone else he was... seeing, that you know of? Anyone else who might have done this, either accidentally or on purpose?”

Ms. Lauer cleared her throat, too, and shook her head.  “No, not at all. Ichiro was a solitary man, and he told me everything.   _Everything._ There was no one else in his life.  There was barely any _thing_ else in his life.”

“And what about the other end of it...  Was Ichiro the only person you were seeing?  Anybody who could’ve been jealous over you?”

Ms. Lauer seemed to wilt immediately.  “Ah. That... I _wish_ I could say there wasn’t...”

 

* * *

 

Rachel Lauer had an ex with a restraining order, an engineer on the air force base, so Steve and Danny trundled off to talk to the man.   Steve wandered off ahead being all SEAL-y, and while Steve was gone Danny called up Catherine to warn her.

“Steve wants to try it.”

“Try what?  Wait.... S and M?  Are you sure?”

“You didn’t see the way he was looking at this lady as she made it sound like cotton candy and orgasms all wrapped up into one.  Yes, I’m sure!”

“Alright, well...  That’s fine, I guess.”

“It is?  Wait, is it?  You said you weren’t interested.”

“Oh, not me, no—definitely not.  It hits... I’m ex-military, Danny, please guess why I don’t want to hit someone calling me _sir.”_

“Okay, first of all, I am so, _so_ sorry Catherine—”

“Thank you, now never mention it again.”

“Consider it forgotten.  But if you aren’t willing, then why did you say it was fine?”

“He’s not going to come to _me,_ Danny.  You’ve already said you tried it.  That makes you the experienced one.  He’s going to go to you.”

“I said I tried it, and _did not like it._ He’s not going to come to me!”  Danny thought about it a second, and then admitted, “If he does come to me, I’m going to have to say no.”

The line was silent for a second, and then Catherine sighed.  “Fuck,” she said. “How certain are you that Steve wants to try this?”

“I am completely certain.   _He’s_ not certain, not yet, but by the time we’re done with this investigation...  Yeah. It’s coming.”

“Fuck,” Catherine repeated.  

The sound of thinking was very loud over the empty line.

Then Danny groaned.  “Okay,” he said, “I hate this idea—I feel _really dumb_ even _mentioning_ this idea—but it’s like a Steve idea, in that as crazy as it sounds—which is very, by the way, this is very crazy—but... it should actually _work...”_

 

* * *

 

Max was signing off on Ichiro Konimura when Catherine Rollins and Danny Williams showed up at his lab.  “Detective—Lieutenant—I wasn’t expecting to see you again today. Chin Ho Kelly already came by for my report—”

He stopped.  Danny was cringing, and Catherine was visibly uncomfortable.  Max discarded what he had meant to say and instead asked, “Is something wrong?”

Catherine looked at Danny.  Danny looked back at Catherine.  Catherine made a little ushering gesture with her hands:   _go ahead._ Danny looked back at Max and winced.  “We... might need a favor.”

“Do need a favor,” Catherine corrected.

“Right.  It’s about...  BDSM.”

Danny winced again.

Max shrugged, trying to keep his posture neutral and non judgemental.  “My offer this morning was sincere; if you have any questions...”

“It’s... not exactly a question.”  Catherine had taken the lead in the conversation.  “More of a request. And if you’re not comfortable, we _completely_ understand, absolutely—just say the word, really—”

“Definitely,” Danny said fervently.

“But the thing is, if you _are_ comfortable...  You said you’d tried this stuff?  Before?”

This was an interesting turn.  Max tilted his head to the side, and answered the question factually to buy himself some time to think.  “I have tried both sides, yes. Many imagine me to be an ideal submissive due to my stature, but in fact I am far more comfortable with the Domination role.  In medical school, I was well known to be the best Dom in our class, and my services were particularly in demand around exam times. And of course, I’ve engaged occasionally with the clubs here on the island, as well.”

That had been enough time.  Max was putting the pieces together, now.  “If you’re here to ask to top one of _you...”_

Danny waggled one hand back and forth in the air; Catherine dipped her head to the side noncommitally.  

“...But there’s no reason for the two of you to come ask me together,” Max finished.  “You two, after all, are not a couple. If you were asking on behalf of _Steve,_ on the other hand...”

Nods.

Max nodded too.  

“...My answer would be yes.”

“You would?  Really?” Catherine looked like she’d barely dared to hope he’d say it.

Danny’s face was open and filled with gratitude.  “Max. _Thank you.”_

“There are conditions.”

“Right—” Danny said at the same time Catherine blurted, “Sure!”  

“—Absolutely.”

“Name them.”  

“Never at work, first and foremost.  I understand that the three of you continue to be  a thruple even when you’re on the job—”

“Oh, that’s not... I mean...”  Catherine’s face was distressed.  Max surmised that _thruple_ was not quite the proper characterization of their relationship.

“—but I find that I _cannot_ mix work with pleasure.  I become too... distracted... and fail at both endeavors.”

“That’s fine,” Danny agreed.  “Totally makes sense.”

Catherine nodded beside him.

“And I would need Steve to ask me himself,” he continued.

Danny and Catherine blinked at each other.  

“You can not simply ask me on his behalf,” Max clarified for them when it became obvious they had not taken his meaning.  “In matters such as these, I would want to hear it straight from the proverbial horse’s mouth. After all, consent is of the utmost importance.”

The two of them agreed, and after some consideration Max was inclined to believe that would be the end of it.  After all, it was highly unlikely that a man possessed of both Steve’s temperament and his physical appearance would be interested in pursuing even non-sexual BDSM with someone like _Max._  Danny and Catherine’s plea notwithstanding, it was an improbable situation.

But contrary to Max’s previous assessment of the matter, two weeks later Steve McGarrett did indeed knock on Max’s door, and was clearly not in pursuit of case-related information—not least since that particular case had been closed ten days ago (the cousin did it, and had used the fetish gear to throw off suspicion).

The knock came at his apartment door, not his office door, by which Max surmised that Steve had already been briefed on the conditions of Max’s participation.  After all, Max’s apartment was half an hour across the island, while his office was right downstairs from Steve’s own. Steve was wearing neatly-fitted jeans and a button-down shirt, a slightly more formal outfit for him.  He must be exerting at least some effort to appear attractive, a positive type of sign. He was clean—Max knew for a fact that Five-0 had been rolling around in mud earlier that afternoon—and his truck, which Max glimpsed over his shoulder, was freshly washed.

Max got all of his surprise out in three hard blinks before ushering Steve into the apartment and offered him a coke.

“Oh,” Steve said, looking startled.  “Uh, sure. Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Max assured him.  He poured the coke over a glass of ice and passed it over.  Upon consideration, he also rummaged in the fridge and brought out some fresh veggies, assembling them onto a plate into a visually pleasing formation.  And some grapes, which he placed in a large bowl. He thought about it, but decided against adding the ice cream. No need to go overboard.

He indicated that Steve should help himself to the repast.  

“Thanks,” Steve said again.  His eyes darted around Max’s apartment—it hadn’t changed much since the last time Steve was here—and then he reached out to take a miniature tomato.  “Oh, that’s good. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.  And...” Max titled his head to the side, studying the commander, remembering the pause between footsteps and knock.  “...nervous, it seems. Your anxiety, however, is unfounded. I am, of all your friends, the _least_ likely to judge you or anything you do as _strange.”_

Steve blinked rapidly, then made a havering face.  “Well, I mean, _Jerry...”_

“You are missing my point—purposefully.”  Max helped himself to a grape, chewed, and swallowed.  There was no point in doing this if Steve wouldn’t let himself follow Max’s lead.  “I assume from your current state of emotional discomfort that you spoke to Detective Williams and the Lieutenant regarding my availability, as it were, in regards to a potential BDSM scene. Furthermore, I assume that they told you of my conditions for this particular encounter. Would you mind repeating to me what, exactly, those rules were?”

And this was the point when Steve had to admit he knew them.  “Not at work,” Steve admitted slowly, his hand tightening on his coke glass, “and only if I came to ask in person.”

“And here you are.”  Max picked up another grape, but didn’t eat it.  Instead, he used it to gesture at Steve, at the whiteness of his knuckles and the tension in his back.  “So nervous you almost didn’t even knock, and attempting to cover your discomfiture with weak humor.”

Steve hid his face by taking a quick swallow of coke, then put the glass down with a guilty grimace.  “Yeah, okay, I’m nervous.” He smiled, kind of. “First time, and all.”

“Actually, it isn’t,” Max corrected, then explained when Steve looked confused:  “You haven’t actually asked me, yet.”

He popped the grape into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed while waiting for Steve to get over the mental bluescreen that produced, and another while he worked himself up to it.  He was picking out a third grape by the time Steve managed to work himself up to saying—

“Max, will you, uh...  Will you do BDSM with me?”

“Certainly.  Have a grape.”  

And Max held the grape up between them, obviously holding it still for Steve to bite.

Steve McGarrett was, for a wide variety of reasons, more physically intimidating than Max.  He had also served in command of men for years, giving him a natural dispensation to take charge.  Steve did not currently have a habit of submission. Therefore, if Max was to remain in control of the encounter, he would need to keep Steve off-balance.  

He held the grape patiently and waited.

Steve’s face was a picture of discomfort.  Max had not physically harmed him in any way—nor did he intend to—but Steve was uncomfortable all the same.  Max hypothesized that he was unused to displays of caring dominance. Surely harsher forms, such as violence, would be more common in the military.  

Still, it was clear that Steve had taken Max’s meaning.  At first his hand rose, then jerked down again. He eyed the grape with an expression of some wariness before leaning downward towards it.  His motions were slow, an understandable caution given his lack of experience both with practice in general and with Max in particular.

He pulled his lips back as he opened his mouth, taking the grape between his teeth while avoiding any contact with Max’s fingers.  An understandable hesitation. Max released the fruit.

Steve pulled back, sucking the grape into his mouth.  His eyes were still wide and shocked.

“Well done,” Max praised.

Steve blushed.

“You asked me to ‘do BDSM’ with you,” Max continued.  He picked up another grape, allowing the delicate way he held it to make his intent plain.  “One of the first rules of that practice is the importance of good communication. For the sake of clarity, then: did you want me to dominate, or submit?”

Steve’s pupils were dilating, and goosebumps on his forearms had risen into an army of erect black hairs.  He swallowed once, likely to moisten a mouth gone dry. “Dominate me,” he answered, and then immediately looked at the grape Max was still rolling between his fingers.

Max frowned up at him—that special variety of frown which was simultaneously honest but also played up for the benefit of a sub—and didn’t hold up the grape.  Not yet. “Surely, Commander, you can ask more politely than that.”

Steve shivered when Max said _Commander,_ and balked at being scolded like a child.  Both were informative reactions that Max made careful note of.  He let the silence spool out for an internal count of twenty before moving.  (He knew some who would judge the timing intuitively, but Max had always found it easiest simply to count.)  

At twenty, he ate the grape.

Steve blinked, then flushed.  His gaze dropped to his feet, which shuffled in the carpet like a schoolboy’s.  However, he did appear to have forgotten that he was able to simply reach out and take a grape himself—a positive sign, in Max’s judgement.  

Max picked up a slice of yellow pepper, this time, and tried again.  “Communication, Steven. You must ask for what you want—at least at this early stage.”

Steve’s face was red, now.  He was appeared deeply uncomfortable with Max’s use of his given name, while his title had left him, in contrast, uncomfortable but aroused.  Max resolved to use the title from here in.

Still, Steve appeared to have taken the point.  He closed his eyes—apparently a sop to his own sense of shame—and said, “Please dominate me, Max.”

“With pleasure,” Max answered promptly, and held up the little pepper slice.

This time Steve leaned in without hesitation.  The pepper was longer than the grape, and perhaps that was why Steve was willing to close not only his teeth, but also his lips, around it, taking it gently but firmly from Max’s grasp.

“Much better,” Max praised.  He wasn’t comfortable saying “well done” when it had taken Steve two tries, but the improvement was an accurate assessment.  “One more thing.”

He paused to eat another grape, mostly for the pointed indifference it conveyed.  Indeed, Steve’s brows dipped at the small wait and then smoothed out again, the message presumably having been received:  he had asked to be dominated. Now, then, he could wait upon Max.

Max nodded to himself as he swallowed and picked up a cherry tomato.  “Is there any type of interaction to which you vehemently object? There are as many ways to play as there are practitioners in the scene.  If you absolutely abhor one way, we can simply omit it, and substitute others.”

Steve’s face was blank, not in a manner reminiscent of a mask, but as if in incomprehension.  Max sighed and rephrased.

“For example, if I were playing with a sub who had a personal history of disordered eating.  Hand feeding, such as we have done already, would be inappropriate. We would strike it from our play.  Is there any form of play to which you object in a similar manner?”

Now the blankness shifted, becoming the blankness of thought:  Steve’s mouth pursed slightly, his eyes narrow and focused on nothing over Max’s shoulder.  Eventually, he shook his head. “I, uh... I don’t know enough about...” A wild hand gesture took in, presumably, the entirety of BDSM practice.  “But if we find something, is there a way I could tell you?”

Max smiled and bobbed his head.  “For that, you get the tomato _and_ a grape,” he said warmly.  He held up the tomato and felt a glow as Steve took it out of his hand, lips brushing against Max’s fingertips.  Steve’s cheeks were pink, he noticed. Praise? Almost certainly the cause. Max picked up the grape and, as Steve leaned in for it, explained.  “Many practitioners use safewords. I prefer the color scale, personally, and depending on your play, even that may not be necessary. Unless you have a preference, I suggest we begin with traffic lights—yellow for a small pause or adjustment, red for breaking the scene.”  

Steve swallowed and nodded.  “That sounds good. Uh. I mean... Please?”  His voice pitched up in uncertainty, obviously remembering the injunction to be polite, but Max was willing to let this one go.  

He had more urgent goals right now.

“Excellent,” he agreed, his voice so cheerful it was almost a chirp.  “In which case, get on your knees.”

A million different expressions crossed Steve’s face at the simple instruction, some of them obviously in response to some lascivious interpretations.  Max saw raw nerves for a second, the proof that of all the aspects of this about which Steve was uncertain, the sexual was perhaps the most prominent. He also saw clearly the moment in which Steve realized that if he hadn’t wanted to have sex with Max, ten seconds ago was the time when he should have mentioned that.  

Steve sank to his knees.

Max immediately grabbed him by the collar of his button-down shirt and started pulling.

Steve did well:  he didn’t attempt to rise to his feet.  Perhaps he knew intuitively that being dragged was, somewhat, the point—or perhaps he merely had good instincts.  Regardless, he shuffled on his knees behind Max, teeth clenched in humiliation, as Max dragged him away from the counter and into the adjacent living room then tossed him to the ground in front of the most comfortable armchair.

Steve lay on the floor, not moving except to breathe, hands braced in front of him where he had cushioned his fall—although Max had been sure to keep his push gentle enough that, had Steve not caught himself, he still would have done no serious damage.  Max nodded to himself, ordered Steve to “stay there,” and ducked quickly into the bedroom to retrieve a kit from his closet.

With a more experienced player, Max might have drawn this part out.  With a more experienced player, he could have used the quiet and the isolation to unnerve and frighten, making them grateful for his attention when he returned.  Steve, however, was new to the game, and would not have the familiarity to endure any gaps in the experience. While Max was delighted to cause his subs pain, he was unwilling to cause them true distress.  It was a fine line to walk.

Therefore, Max spent as little time as he could retrieving the black duffle bag in which he kept his travel-kit of tools.  He brought it out and set it unopened on the nearby coffee table, then crossed his arms and considered the man still sprawled on the ground in front of his favorite chair.  

Steve was still in the position Max had left him in, his breath coming almost, but not quite, evenly.  His hips shifted slightly in a manner that strongly suggested he had at least a partial erection. He had tilted his head up the bare minimum needed for him to keep an eye on Max’s movements.  

No cushion, Max decided.  Steve wouldn’t welcome that particular softness.  

He turned and sat in his chair, taking a few extra seconds to make himself comfortable because he suspected Steve would respond well to the display of power.  Then he snapped his fingers. “Go bring the bag and set it on my lap,” he ordered, “then take off your shoes and socks, set them by the door, come back, and sit here on your knees, with your hands in your lap.”  He indicated the floor in front of the chair again.

Steve rose for these tasks—a reasonable decision.  He raised his eyebrows at the weight of the bag—less than it appeared—and when he set it on Max’s lap, he was careful to balance it across both knees so that the burden of it was evenly distributed.  

When Steve returned and sank back to his knees, he was sure and graceful in the movement.  It was the only task Max had set him so far which came easily. Max made a note.

Max settled his hands on top of the bag and looked.  He donned an expression of critical assessment for a second—an accurate, if exaggerated, representation of his thoughts—then clicked his tongue.  “Shirt off,” he instructed.

Steve tensed but complied, silently unbuttoning his shirt enough to get it over his head before tossing it behind him.  He hesitated a second, hands on his undershirt, and Max answered the question before he could ask. “That one, too.”

Steve nodded and shucked it.

He was a handsome man even with the shirt on, possessing a square-jawed forthrightness about his features which had always been attractive.  The exposed skin and especially muscle had its own appeal. The artwork on each of his arms intrigued Max, although Max knew better than to attempt the prying out of overly personal history during a scene.  Still, he was beautiful, and Max couldn’t help feeling a pleased thrill to have such a man kneeling at his feet. He was golden even in the subpar light of Max’s apartment.

“Are you comfortable?”

Steve blinked again.  Max suspected that, even in his non-scene, personal life, comfort was not an especially high priority of the commander’s.  “Uh,” he said, obviously stalling for time, “emotionally?”

“I was referring to the temperature,” Max answered.  “But if it is relevant, feel free to assess yourself psychologically, as well.”

Steve looked at the floor, shoulders hunching.  “Temperature’s fine,” he said, then hesitated. “I’m a little cool, but I’m pretty sure I’ll warm up as we go.”

Max shook his head.  “In a bit. For now, the thermostat is on the wall over the television.  You may adjust it to your preference.”

“What about you?” Steve protested, seemingly on automatic.  

Max noted the argument, but decided to allow it on the grounds that Steve was still new to the scene.  “If I become uncomfortable, I will tell you,” he said with finality.

Steve opened his mouth, then paused, obviously thinking over his options.  After a couple seconds he rose silently and went to adjust the thermostat.

When Steve was back on his knees, Max ran a hand over the top of the duffle and unzipped it.  The sound of the zipper was loud in the apartment. Max could have set up some background music, he supposed, but he prefered to be able to focus on Steve, especially on an initial encounter such as this one.  Beside the sound of children on the playground down the street and cars on the road outside, the zipper was the only sound in the apartment.

“This being your initial foray,” Max mused, “it is difficult to know your level of familiarity with the techniques of BDSM.  Some I am unwilling to try tonight for that reason. E. g...” He pulled out a gag, allowing it to dangle in front of Steve’s face, noting the expression it evoked.  Steve was rarely intimidated, and it was an undeniable thrill to Max to be the source of that intimidation himself. “Given that I will _not_ be using this tonight... do you think you would like it if I did?”

Steve visibly hesitated, then gulped.  “Probably,” he said. He was staring at the gag.

Max tossed it across the room, arching it high over Steve’s head.  Neither of them looked to see where it landed. “Thank you,” Max said, “that’s good to know.  What about this one?” He pulled out a flogger.

The flogger got a “very probably,” and Max put it back in the bag.  The handcuffs got a dubious “maybe,” but in a fascinating contrast, the rope got a definite “yes.”  

They would start with that one, Max decided, putting it back in the bag and pulling out a blindfold.  The blindfold got the first “no” of the evening, and Max sent it spinning sideways through the air like a frisbee to get it as far away as possible.  

There was one more object he pulled out of the bag.  “What about this?” he asked.

Steve gulped again.  He looked uncertain, now, his eyes caught on the tool in Max’s hand as surely as if it were live ordnance.  His mouth worked, but no answer was forthcoming.

Max sighed, playing up his own disappointment, and saw Steve straighten in response.  “Have you ever used one?”

Steve had been fighting a flush since Max pulled the object from the bag, and now he lost that fight.  Red color surged upward on his neck, towards his face, suffusing the delicate vessels of his cheeks. “Yes,” he said with a somewhat strangled tone.

Max didn’t let up.  “On yourself?”

Steve’s muscles tensed—an excellent view as well as an indication of stress—and his flush deepened, but he managed to grind out a “yes.”  After a moment of silence, he amended the answer with a tentative, “...sir?”

A perfect opportunity to ask something Max had been wondering about.  Given the commander’s military background, there were two ways such a form of address might go:  either very easy, or very painful. “Do you enjoy calling me sir?”

“Yes, sir.”  

And this time, the word had come out easily.  Exceptionally so: it was the simplest response Steve had given all night.  Max tipped his head to the side and circled the forefinger of the hand not holding a buttplug, an indication that Steve should continue speaking.  

“Sir is for superior officers,” Steve explained in response.  “Docs are always officers, Joe White was my superior officer...  I can use sir for a friend, and it... suits, for this.”

“Ah.  An excellent answer.”  He made his voice warm with approval.  “In which case, you will use it for the remainder of the scene.”  He gestured with his right hand, the plug bobbing in the air. “We have not discussed the use of sexual contact.  It is entirely possible to run a BDSM scene without such, and I would be perfectly happy to proceed regardless of whether or not we include it tonight.  Your consent and comfort are of the highest priority; sexual satisfaction comes very far down the list.”

Max paused.  “Repeat what I just said,” he ordered, and only once Steve had replayed his instructions—that sex was purely optional—only _then_ did Max ask, “Would you be interested in including sexual contact in our play?”

Steve looked down.  At first Max supposed he was avoiding Max’s eyes—understandable, but a poor habit which Max had already decided to break him of.  Soon enough, however, Max realized that Steve’s gaze was actually directed, and after following it Max realized that Steve was indicating his own rather substantial erection.  

That wasn’t an answer.  Max waited.

Steve looked up again and caught sight of Max’s expression.  His face did something complicated as he realized that Max wanted him to say it out loud.  “I... _would_ be interested.  Apparently. Sir.”  

Max waited a bit more, but that was all the answer Steve appeared willing to give.  He would simply have to double-check such consent when the time came. “Understood,” he said instead of pushing.  He pulled a few more things out of the bag, dropping them on the table, and then lifted the duffle off his lap and deposited it on the floor beside his favorite chair.  When that was out of the way, he urged Steve forward, turning him so that he was now kneeling with his back to Max, his head tipped back on Max’s knees.

Max ran his hand through the short crop of Steve’s hair, once and then again, soothing.  He ran his hands forward, cupping Steve’s head and jaw warmly, sensuously. Stroked his hand down Steve’s neck, then up again to pull lightly at the hair.  Steve’s breath caught at the faint pressure in a very satisfying way.

“Stay put,” Max instructed.  “You may make noise if you like, but do not move.  I must admit...” He let his hand travel down over Steve’s throat, enjoying the catch of his breath when it crossed the windpipe, then settled it over the upper edge of Steve’s trapezius.  “This is something I have wished to do for some time—I believe the first time was when you broke into my house while on the run. I do intend to enjoy my opportunity while I have it.”

Steve clenched up further, and a small sound which was not quite a whimper came from his throat.  He stayed still under Max’s hands, however, and the groan that resulted when Max dug a thumb into each side of the trapezius was intensely satisfying.  From his vantage directly over Steve’s head, Max could easily see the muscles in Steve’s thighs jumping as he suppressed the urge to move away from the intense pleasure/pain of the massage.  

Max grunted in satisfaction and dug his thumbs in deeper.

Max didn’t have the powerful, muscular hands that both of Steve’s current partners possessed.  He certainly did not fight, nor did he handle guns on a regular basis as they did. He _was_ a doctor however, even if his patients were beyond the benefits of therapeutic massage.  Additionally, this was a practice that had born great fruit in his previous scenes. He was quite sure it would be the best massage Steve had ever received voluntarily.

It took less than a minute to pull the first groan out of Steve, and the second one followed swiftly on its heels.  Max worked his fingers into the hard fibers along Steve’s spine, knowing that most of the tension would be in the erector spinae, and that he would have to press through the trapezius which lay above those muscles like a sheltering cape.  He smoothed his hands laterally from center, pressing the muscle fibers into straighter shapes, then adjusted his position another half-inch dorsally and repeated the actions.

Steve was melting beneath his touch.  Small noises fell from him with every press of Max’s fingers, and his breathing was rough in a manner that suggested tears.  Much of the tension had left his back even without Max touching those portions of his anatomy—a testimony to the psychological benefits of a good massage.  

It was enormously satisfying.  Max was semi-erect as he worked, blood pulsing through him with every little not-quite-whimper Steve gave off.  This shirtless beast of a man—so dangerous, so tough—was putty beneath him, utterly under Max’s careful control.  

This was the part that never got old.  Max’s breathing was rough as his hands worked.

Once Steve was suitably pliant—bent over, pushed forward as Max stood so that his chest was resting against his knees and Max could use gravity to aid his ministrations—Max walked around him, looking.  Steve didn’t look up as he did so; his head was down, and he left it that way, sides rising and falling smoothly with his breath.

Max stopped in front of Steve.  His first instinct was to kneel; however, it was likely that Steve’s pride would resist the appearance of needing help to stand.  Max considered it, watching Steve breathe as he did so, and then ordered, “Stay.”

A quick check of the locks on the windows and doors, and he was back.  He gathered up the toys he had pulled from the bag and carried them into the bedroom, arranging them on the bedside table which—in deference to his proclivities—was quite large.  He also had a well-stocked mini-fridge and under-bed storage with a much more extensive toy collection than the duffel could hold. His headboard was substantial, with wrought-iron decorations ideal for hooking cuffs onto.  In general, he had attempted to blend the functional with the seemingly innocuous and—if he might be forgiven the self-congratulation—the effect had come out well.

When the space was prepared, he went back for Steve.  He put the black duffle bag over his shoulder and addressed Steve without looking.  “Hands and knees, Commander. Come.”

Steve crawled after him into his bedroom, and that was a memory that Max had every intention of revisiting on future occasions.

 

* * *

 

Steve couldn’t move.  

He was kneeling on Max’s bed, knees spread about a foot apart.  His legs were bound, calves to thighs, with the soft blue rope that Max had showed him in the other room.  The rope that Steve had said yes to. That rope.

It continued up, over his hips, framing his package humiliatingly.  Max had told him not to remove his boxer-briefs, and he didn’t know what that implied about whether Max was going to fuck him or not, but it _did_ mean that Steve’s shorts were rubbing against the head of his cock.  They were just faintly slick from his own leakage, and the friction was torture.

From his hips, the ropes travelled up his chest.  Max had put a series of intricate knots there, anchoring more lengths which he used to bind Steve’s arms behind him.  Steve was pricklingly aware that if Max knocked him over right now, he would have a hard time bringing himself back up.  

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152315641@N07/40849099083/in/dateposted-public/)

Max looped the final length of rope around the central column of knots and pulled, looping it up to form a handle.  Then he leaned in, still holding Steve by that handle, and scratched the blunt nails of his free hand down over Steve’s right nipple.  

Steve gasped.  It wasn’t painful at all—he didn’t know why he had expected it to be—but it _was_ shockingly intimate, much more sexual than he had expected.  More sexual than he was comfortable with, although he had kind of figured that would be part of the deal here.  Still, it was arousing and intrusive, both at once, and his feet curled into the bedspread as he realized that Max could do just about anything, and at this point, he would have no choice but to take it.

As terrifying as the thought was, it also made his cock throb that little bit harder.  Steve watched Max’s eyes dart down and realized that Max was perfectly well aware of everything Steve was thinking right now.  Everything Steve was _feeling_ right now, too.  

_Oh, God..._

Steve bit his lip.

Max switched hands, holding Steve in place by the ropes with his left now, and brought his hand up to cup Steve’s chin.  It was a gentle gesture, almost parental, but at this point that in itself was terrifying. Without intending to, Steve opened his mouth, his lower lip stinging from the imprint of his teeth.

Max smirked and brushed a thumb across Steve’s mouth.  Steve reacted instinctively and touched the tip of that thumb with his tongue.  Adrenaline was pulsing through him; his head was spinning. Tensions both good and bad were curling in his stomach.  

Max narrowed his eyes.  “Suck,” he commanded, and Steve did, closing his lips around Max’s thumb.  He shuddered, hard and leaking in his too-tight shorts. He hadn’t been sure about the sex aspect of this—hadn’t been ready to commit, until the itching curiosity got so bad that he couldn’t stop himself—but now, lips closing around Max’s thumb and body coiled with a tension he couldn’t move enough to release...  Now he was sure. He imagined Max climbing up and feeding his dick into Steve’s trapped mouth, imagined Max fucking his throat with a hand on each side of his head, and shook helplessly in arousal.

Max smiled, eyes sharp as a blade.  

“I’m going to recline you now,” he told Steve.  “It is critical that you alert me if there is any pinching or tightening of the ropes such that you lose circulation.  The idea of this is pleasurable pain—not lasting damage.”

Steve nodded, mind whirling in anticipation.  Max grabbed the rope harness and pushed him slowly back, his spare hand beneath the small of Steve’s back, supporting him as he went backwards.  The end position had his knees still bent—still bound—and his arms still behind him, but other than that he was one smooth arch from knees to neck.  His hips were pressed gently upward by the position, and he felt a faint stretch in his stomach and groin, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Max had him roll his wrists and shoulders to check.

“Excellent,” he announced when Steve was done.  He pulled something from the bag: a sharpie.

Steve didn’t have long to wonder what Max was going to do.  Max immediately began to draw circles on his skin, larger ones maybe two inches in diameter around the nipples, then smaller ones the size of quarters down Steve’s chest and stomach, over his hips and down his thighs.  The marker caught slightly every time it went over hair, and for the first time since he was a teenager Steve felt some shame about how much body hair he had.

“Should I have ssshaved, sir?” Steve asked, his voice slurred.

“No,” Max answered.   _He_ wasn’t slurring.  His voice was confident and authoritative, the way he was in the field.  Steve shivered again, and was glad Max had told him to turn up the thermostat.  

Max capped the marker and set it aside, then turned again to the duffel and rummaged in it.  “I had a difficult puzzle when Detective Williams and Lieutenant Rollins came to me,” he said as he searched.  His head was bent and he wasn’t looking at Steve. “It seemed obvious that you wanted me to hurt you, at least somewhat.  Although it is possible to construct scenes without masochistic elements, it is far more common to include them. And yet, your own personal history would preclude many of the usual techniques.”

Steve blinked at the ceiling, the ink chilly where it was drying on his skin, and then his sluggish mind put together what Max was saying.  “You thought I would have a flashback?”

“To a time when you were beaten, stabbed, shot, choked, or electrocuted...  Indeed. However, there is one type of pain that is relatively uncommon outside of the scene.”

Max had come up out of the duffel with something in his hand, but frustratingly, Steve couldn’t see what it was.  His position had Max just at the edge of his vision; the bag itself was out of his field of view.

“If this _does_ cause you distress,” Max was saying, “Please feel free to shout yellow, for a pause, or red, for an end to the scene entirely.  Incidentally, what color best represents you now?”

Steve blinked and tried to regulate his breathing, keeping it steady in the face of anticipation.  “Green, sir.”

“Excellent,” Max declared.  “And so we begin.”

There were three quarter-sized circles drawn on each side of Steve’s upper chest, above the large ones around each nipple.  Max pinched the skin on either side of the first circle—Steve could just barely see it—then brought something forward in his hand.  

A clamp, Steve realized just as it bit into his flesh.  It wasn’t an alligator clip; the head had no teeth, just two small pads that squeezed together.  Nothing that would break the skin, or even leave a mark unless it was left on for a long period of time.  And Max was right, it was something Steve hadn’t suffered before...

After a second or two, the pain changed, leveling out from the pinch to a sort of intense, throbbing squeeze.

A second or two after _that,_ Steve remembered just how many patches of skin Max had circled on him.  He made a noise—half a groan, half a gasp—as he realized how long this would take.  He could just barely see Max suppress a smile at the sound, and bizarrely, _that_ was the thing that turned him on:  not the pain, but the fact that Max was enjoying this.  That he was doing it on purpose, hurting Steve, and was having a good time hurting him.  It was sick—but in a good way. In a _fun_ way.  Like the upside-down feeling in your stomach when BASE jumping:  wrong, but at the same time, also _great._

Steve squirmed against the ropes—not much play there—and squirmed again as Max pinched up a second circle of flesh.  

There was an order to the pattern Max had drawn on him; they weren’t random, and there was a progression that went down the length of Steve’s body.  The second clamp went in just to the right of the first. The third—Steve made a noise in his throat—was just to the right of the second.

Steve’s eyes widened as he realized where the next clamp was going.  He struggled against the ropes. The clamps over his chest burned when he tightened his muscles, tried to thrash.  

Max didn’t even blink.  He pinched Steve’s nipples with the same clinical precision with which he had the regular skin of Steve’s chest, but Steve still couldn’t help feeling like they were special.  His nipples had always been sensitive, and reactive nips were something he himself liked in a partner. The touch of the slightly cool metal of the clamp felt depraved; Max’s lack of reaction felt degrading.  Steve blinked a couple times and gasped through it as Max, who was pretending not to notice but definitely had, moved on to the next part of Steve’s body.

By the time Max had reached Steve’s hips, Steve’s chest was a throbbing, aching mess.  He wasn’t panting, precisely, but he was breathing heavy, mouth open and eyes shut. He had to keep them shut, because the sight of Max’s little smile was devastating in a way that Steve couldn’t really handle right now.

He was sure that he had it—that he was on top of this whole thing, that he was _handling_ it—right up until Max pinched up some skin over his hipbones.  The skin was thinner there, the nerves closer to the surface. It hurt, hurt like the other spots hadn’t, and Steve yelped.  He squirmed against the bonds instinctively, but of course, they didn’t budge. He jerked again because he couldn’t move, and when that, too, was ineffective, he instinctively shouted.

“Finally,” Max said calmly.  “I wondered how long you would take.”  He put his hand on top of Steve’s stomach and shoved, effectively pinning Steve into place even if Steve _had_ been able to get past the ropes, then flicked a finger against the clamp over Steve’s left nipple.  Steve shouted again and pressed his shoulders back, but the message had been painfully received. He would try not to move too much anymore.

“Better,” Max said approvingly.  He gave a happy, nasty little smile, and something turned over in Steve’s stomach.  But when Max pinched up the thin skin of Steve’s hip again and clamped it, the same as the others, Steve managed not to budge.  

After that, it was different.  Even with the throbbing backdrop of his chest, Steve felt hypersensitive to the movements of Max’s hands.  Each clamp felt like it took forever to put on, and felt like claws once it was closed over Steve’s flesh. Max went back and forth down Steve’s hips, left, right, left again but slightly lower down...  

Steve was making noises, now, guttural, broken-sounding things.  He was gasping, too, taking in air like it was going to help anything—although the larger movements of his ragged breathing just made the clamps on his chest hurt more.  Max didn’t seem to mind: he kept popping his head into Steve’s range of vision just so Steve could see his happy, evil little smile. His hands were steady and gentle as he applied his torture devices.  

The last ones were applied to Steve’s inner thighs, some three inches above the knees, and then Max sat back, moving up to sit by Steve’s head and pressing his hand against Steve’s cheek almost as if checking for fever.  “I’m g-good,” Steve said, although a shiver rocked him halfway through the words. He frowned, remembering, and added, “...Sssir.”

“Indubitably,” Max said, lifting his brows in a way that said he wasn’t sure he agreed.  “Red, yellow, or green?”

Steve shuddered again.  Something about the impersonal tone of the question set sparks off in his mind, like a worm that was for once able to bask in the sunlight.  “G-green, sssir.”

Max frowned.  “Are you cold?”  He had noticed Steve’s shivers.  

Steve shook his head.  “Sssensitive,” he corrected.  “Hurts, but—gooood, ssssir...”  

Max broke out into smiles.  “That is the idea, Commander.  Can you move your fingers, still?”  

Steve tested it, then managed the “yes, sir.”  Max repeated the question for his toes, then double-checked that all the places Steve was hurting were the ones Max wanted to hurt.  Finally, he reached out and squeezed a random selection of the clamps, pinching Steve’s flesh harder in those few spots. The smile he gave this time was wide and pleased, transparently open and therefore vicious.  “Wonderful,” Max said, but it didn’t sound like he meant _well done._ It sounded more like _you are wonderful,_ and Steve flushed under the praise.

“This next part may be difficult to endure,” Max warned him cheerfully.  Steve whined in his throat at how happy Max looked to be hurting him. It was messing with his mind, the contrast.  Steve wouldn’t have thought he would like a cheerful sadist, but Max’s gentle cruelty was doing if for him. And even stranger, Steve knew he could _trust_ the contradictions.  This was Max; it wasn’t like he would ever _lie._

Then the first clamp lifted off of Steve’s left pec, and there were other things to worry about.

* * *

Steve looked _amazing,_ sweating and swearing under Max’s hands.  He was astonishingly responsive, particularly when one considered the his background and personality into the mix:  Steve was not one overly prone to demonstrations of emotion. To having him crying out, arching at Max’s every touch, was a gift.  Max hoped that he would prove worthy of it.

He pulled the clamps off methodically; the anticipation, he knew, would enhance Steve’s sensations.  Steve was obviously responding to the pain in the hoped-for manner: his face was glorious, sinking into a lax openness as it worsened.  The clamps, Max knew, hurt worse coming off than they did going on. (He had attempted the submissive role himself often enough to be familiar, although his preference was firmly of the other persuasion.)  

Steve must be burning all over by now.

By the time Max reached the clamps over Steve’s hips, Steve was still, no longer jerking at his touch.  It was not the stillness of indifference, however. Steve was quivering faintly, but controlling himself.  He was still out of _obedience,_ and Max felt, again, the divine trust that submission implied.  

He reached out and touched; he couldn’t _not._  The places where the clamps had dug their metallic arms into Steve’s skin were marked with erythema spots, and Max touched each one with reverent fingers, walking his hands over the exposed vulnerabilities.  

“Commander.”  Max kept his voice soft.  “What color are you?”

“Grrrn, srr” Steve mumbled.  His head did not so much thrash as come upright and then fall over again.  Max frowned. It was clearly supposed to be a green, but Steve was quite far under—perhaps harmlessly, perhaps not.  Best to finish this quickly.

He took the clamp off of Steve’s right hip and moved on without pausing, grasping the next clamp and barely pausing to loosen the teeth before snatching it away from Steve’s skin.  Steve held himself still as Max finished the removal at speed. Air hissed between his teeth, and tears—doubtless involuntary, but no less precious for that—gathered at the corners of his closed lashes.  Max reached up and wiped them away with a careful thumb.

“Can you roll onto your side?” Max asked when he was finished.  The original plan had been for him to raise Steve back up to kneeling, but Max doubted now that Steve had the control or presence of mind for such exertion.  Steve’s answer was a half-mumbled series of hisses that confirmed that guess.

Max nodded to himself and moved around the bed until he could get his shoulder under Steve and tip him over.  Once on his side Steve immediately curled forward, shuddering and cringing in a way that spelled sore muscles at the very least.  Possible cramps. Max observed Steve carefully, but saw no other negative effects. Steve seemed relaxed, and... “Blissed out” was not quite the right word, seeing as the immediate cause of Steve’s euphoria was not happiness, but pain; still, it seemed a natural high was in effect.  

When Max experimentally brushed his thumb over Steve’s mouth as he had earlier, Steve closed his lips around it and sucked with every appearance of happiness.  

Max smiled to himself and loosened the ropes, not entirely removing them yet.  That done, he opened one of the bedside drawers for the gloves. The nitrile snapped as he pulled it on.

Steve’s cock was hard and leaking when Max pulled his boxer-briefs away from it.  He was cut, his hair trimmed—Max suspected Catherine’s influence there—and deeply purple with the extended duration of his erection.  Max touched the head with a single gloved finger, sliding it through the slick, clear fluid that had gathered at Steve’s slit, watching Steve’s face carefully to gauge the reaction.  

Dark lashes fluttered, and the mouth dropped open in pleasure:  that was a yes, then. Still, in this at least Max preferred verbal confirmation, particularly in the first instance of scening together.  Besides which, it would twist the knife.

“If you want me to get you off,” he said—Steve gasped as predicated at the crudity—“then you’re going to have to ask me for it.”

He slipped his finger through the slick on Steve’s cock again, just to drive the point home.  

“...ssssr?” Steve managed, obviously confused, his attention pulled in by the single finger with which Max was caressing him.  

“Ask me,” Max repeated.  He put cajoling patience in his voice, and just a hint of scorn.  Steve twitched as if prodded with an electric device at the tone.

Slowly, after a series of blinks, Steve seemed to realize that Max was going to require him to form words.  He gave his erection a blearily considering glance, then pulled himself together enough to look up at Max and slur, “Please, sssir...?”

Max beamed and grasped him more firmly, stroking downwards with a tight fist, drawing back up more lightly.  Now that Steve _had_ managed to ask, he wasn’t cruel enough to toy with him; instead, he kept his pace brisk, his touch impersonal.  Steve gasped and shook under the strokes, and when Max used his other hand to twist a nipple—he had noticed, earlier, that for Steve they seemed to be a sensitive area—Steve shouted one last time and arched, shooting into Max’s glove-covered hand.

Max considered Steve as he took off the glove, trapping the fluids inside with the ease of long practice.  If Steve had seemed relaxed earlier, he was positively boneless now. He crumpled to the bed without even trying to take off the ropes.  

Max elected not to move him; Max’s earlier diligence in loosening the bonds would ensure that no damage was done to Steve’s circulation even with significantly extended wear.  He did, however, pull free the few ropes he could reach from this angle before sitting on the edge of the bed.

After everything, Max was still wearing his pants, but his cell phone had been left in the next room rather than his pocket.  He retrieved it and called Steve’s partners as a soft snore sounded from the direction of the pillow.

Detective Williams answered on the first ring.  “Is he okay?”

“It went well,” Max answered.  Danny’s concern was charming, in its way.  “He is asleep for now, but perfectly fine otherwise.  However, there is sometimes a delayed reaction to a scene.  I would prefer to keep him overnight; alternatively, you or Lieutenant Rollins may come pick him up.”  He paused, studying the way Steve’s face had softened in sleep. He looked more tired this way. Perhaps Max would advise a vacation.  “I am adamant that he not drive himself home.”

There was a moment of muffled voices, as if Danny had put his hand over the phone.  

_“He’s fine.  Max wants us to come get him.”_

_“Both of us?”_

A pause.   _“Crap.  You can’t?”_

 _“I mean, I_ can, _but...  How bad is it?”_

_“He didn’t say...  Want me to do it?”_

_“...Please?”_

_“Yeah, yeah, I got you, Cath.  Don’t worry about it..._ Yeah, that’s fine.”  Danny’s voice was coming clearly again.  “I can be there... fifteen minutes?”

“I will see you then.”

* * *

Max’s apartment was a pretty small place for a doctor, Danny had always thought.  Then again, Max was a public employee, not a private practice sort, and he lived alone so there really wasn’t any point to anything bigger.  

Not to mention the fucking Hawaiian housing market, which was shit on a stick where the stick was on fire and the shit was also on fire and the whole thing stank.  There was also that.

Still, it wasn’t a large place.  Max greeted Danny at the door with a calm smile and a finger held to his lips, and even from the next room, Danny could clearly hear the snores.  

 _“Wow,”_ he mouthed.  Steve had to be _really_ out of it to get that loud; normally, he would’ve woken himself up by now.  “Sounds like you did a hell of a job.”

Max nodded his head the exact same way he did when Danny correctly guessed the probable murder weapon.  “I believe the evening was satisfactory to both of us. He fell asleep immediately after, however, so I have not verbally confirmed my suspicions.  Please warn him that if he does not call me tomorrow, I _will_ come see him after work tomorrow.”

“That’s assuming we don’t catch a case.”  Optimistic, considering it was Steve. “You know he’s likely to find a body halfway up a mountain tomorrow just _because_ you broke out the whips on him tonight.”

“No whips,” Max corrected absently.  “Ropes.”

“Seriously?”  Danny had been under the impression that the whips were part of the whole point of this, but clearly, Max knew more about it than he did.

“Come see.”

Danny followed Max through to the bedroom, where the two of them spoke in whispers to avoid waking Steve.  

Steve was _out._ It took Danny a second to figure out what was different about it, why Steve looked _so_ limp.  It wasn’t like Danny never got to see Steve asleep, after all.  

Never on his side, though.  Steve was usually a back sleeper, almost always with one hand under the pillow.  Now he was curled up towards the edge of the bed, knees and body forming a C. His left arm was behind him, his right flopped loosely in front of him.  Danny could still see the ligature marks wrapping around it, four bands from wrist to elbow. There were rope marks on Steve’s legs, too, and his chest, as well as darker, almost purple marks surrounded by circles black ink.  Like Steve had been attacked by some kind of damn octopus.

He was still wearing his briefs, although the smell of sex was in the air.  Danny tried not to think about that part, but there were definitely some questions there.  

His left leg, underneath him, was still tied.  The right leg was not. “He fall asleep before you could get the ropes off?”

“Precisely.”  Max’s whisper was amused and fond.  Danny turned to him and saw exactly what he had both expected and feared.

“Oh no.  You, too, Max?”

Max blinked.  “Detective?”

“You’ve got the bug!”

“The _bug?”_ Max’s expression was incredulous and somewhat insulted.

“You’re going to fall in love with him,” Danny accused.  “Like me and Cath. You think you’re safe, you think it’s just sex, but he’ll _get_ you.  Next thing you know, you’ll be giving up a chance at a new life and settling in here in this godforsaken state of sand and sun and— _paradise—_ ”  Danny tried to say that like the curse word it was.  “—and it’ll all be this asshole’s fault.”

“I already live here.”  Max was staring at him like he was a madman.  

He probably would have sounded _less_ like a madman if the whole conversation hadn’t been whispered.

Danny shook his head.  There was no explaining it until it had already got you.  

Steve, when they woke him, was so relaxed Danny immediately sent a mental apology to the dominatrix who had gotten them started on this whole thing:  she had apparently been completely right, at least in Steve’s case. Steve allowed Max to remove the remaining ropes with a peaceable expression—seriously, he had been less compliant while _high on vicodin—_ and had to try twice before he managed to get his pants on.  Danny got him to wear his t-shirt—no need for the neighbors to see those... hickeys?—but took one look and gave up on the button-down, and then it was time to pile Steve into his car.  He buckled him in then turned back to Max. “Thanks again for this.”

“Believe me, Detective...  It was my pleasure.” Max’s calm smile was starting to turn just a bit filthy.  “I would be delighted to repeat the experience... perhaps with more discussion first, establishing the boundaries of our activities with you and Lieutenant Rollins.”

Which meant he intended this to be a regular thing.  Danny shook his head, but he didn’t mean it as a no. “That’s how he gets you,” he warned again as he took his seat in the Camaro.

Max’s grin was downright devilish, now.  “I’m looking forward to it, Detective.” And he pushed, shutting the door for Danny, gently but firmly.

Danny gulped, then turned the key.  He could deal with that later; for now, he needed to get Steve home.


End file.
